Kuwait part deux

The smell of exhaust hangs in the well deck like a black curtain. The vehicles have been idling now for over an hour and the lower V reeks of diesel. I’m anxious to splash and hit the Kuwaiti pier. Hell, we all are.

I glance from my vantage point in the troop commander’s hatch of my track. LCpl Chris Henegar is focused on the sea water creeping steadily inward. He waits for the command to splash from Chainsaw, our platoon sergeant. Once he rolls I’m next in line, only I’m not driving. I get to enjoy the view during the 500 meter water march to the boat ramp.

A voice over the net interrupts the low static. “Splash! Splash! Splash!” Chainsaw is obviously as impatient as we are.

Henegar throws the track in gear and rolls off the stern gate into the bay. But something’s wrong. The gate should’ve been deeper in the water. Instead of angling sharply down and letting the track take full advantage of its displacement at slow speeds, the track teeters precariously on the edge and plunges nose first. Water gushes over the intake grill and into the driver’s station. Henegar is desperately trying to keep his head above water while maintaining control of the vehicle.

“Button your damn hatches down!” Chainsaw hollers again as the track is already righting itself, thus saving Henegar from more watery humiliation. Lesson learned, I squat inside my own hatch and secure it. We splash without incident, march up the ramp, and onto the pier.

The buildings are riddled with bullet holes from Desert Storm. There’s a ghost town sense to the place. No movement. No animals. No people. Just my platoon and our vehicles, and when the last track falls into column and the engines die out an eerie silence falls. I hear a warbling loudspeaker deep within the city in afternoon prayer. It echoes down sandy alleyways and across dirty streets. Despite the forty-two other bodies around me, I feel hopelessly alone.

With some downtime on or hands, the boys and I shuffle through the barren structures lining pier. Countless ledger books and assorted paperwork litter the floors, as if a herd of bankers and lawyers had been defending them until the last man. I squat down on my calves and carefully turn a few pages, lingering over the foreign characters. There’s definite order and purpose to the alien nature of the documents, written right to left in a clear, distinct hand. I’m mesmerized.

Chainsaw’s voice howls through the windows. “Form it up! I want gear guards now!”

The date is December 4th 1998, exactly six years ago to the day when I first stepped foot on Kuwaiti soil.

This time around involved far less fanfare and drama. We arrived in the Kuwait airport just after midnight and bussed silently to Camp Virginia an hour later. We’re in transient status, receiving further, more detailed cultural awareness briefs before we take a military flight to Baghdad on 6 December. We sleep on cots, shower in trailers, and do our business in port-a-johns. There’s a full service chow hall, phone and internet connectivity, convenience store, and even an imitation Pizza Hut within 100 meters from our tent. Camp Virginia is a good place to be without getting shot at or blown up. The permanent personnel will say otherwise, citing its boredom and long lines to services as the number one complaint. But comfort is relative, and for the next thirty-six hours this is as good a home as I’ll ever need.

Keep your eye out eastward at the pages of jaymekohler.com as they evolve. The times, they are a changin’, and you’re part of it.